Birthday
by smellslikecorruption
Summary: A collection of one-shots set during Buffy's canon and post-canon birthdays. Ch. 4-OAFA.
1. Chapter 1

The night before her twenty-fifth birthday she wakes up crying. He can't say it surprises him much, seeing as her birthday has so rarely had pleasant memories attached. She rolls into him and sobs, gasping and frightened, barely awake. Words tumble from her lips, and he has to really listen to figure out what tragic event she's remembering. But when Angel's name comes pouring out, it doesn't bother him nearly as much as it would have a year ago. After all, Angel's bed and open arms are only a mile or so away, but she's still here with him tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I suddenly had the urge to add to this fic. I tried for another drabble, but it kind of got away with me. What say we call it a triple-drabble-plus-24? Set a year after the last chapter.

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As soon as the clock next to their bed declared it midnight, Buffy jabbed Spike in the side. He jolted awake next to her, emitting a noise that she would certainly be making fun of later.

He propped himself up against the headboard and rubbed his face. "What was that for?"

Her eyes strayed to his nightstand. "It's past midnight."

He craned his neck and saw the numbers 12:01 blinking back at him. "So it is." He smiled. "Happy birthday."

She relaxed. It was surprising, the calming effect two simple words had on her nerves. "Thanks."

But then his eyes narrowed. "Buffy? Did you wake me up just so I could say that?"

"No! I want to tell you something."

She watched as curiosity and irritation made plays for dominance across his face. Irritation won. "And this thing you want to tell me? You couldn't have said it earlier? Before I went to sleep for example?"

"No. Because-" and oh, hey, the nerves were back "-it wasn't for sure yet, and I had to wait, I had to, because if I'd said something I might've jinxed it, and yeah, okay, not actually _on _a hellmouth, but I figured the rules still apply, so I _had_ to wait until after midnight!"

She took a breath, and he seized the opportunity to speak.

"So… You have news, but you didn't want to jinx it, so you had to wait until after midnight? On your…" he broke off, and Buffy could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

"I'm twenty-six." She whispered, heart pounding. "As of four minutes ago, I'm officially the longest lived slayer on record."

"Oh." His puzzled look melted into something that looked suspiciously like awe.

"I did die a couple of times, but what with the walking, talking, pulse haviness, I think it still counts."

He blinked. She blinked back. And then Spike tackled her to the bed, and kissed her breathless.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: I wrote this for a prompt about birthdays, and decided to add it to this collection instead of posting it separately. It takes place in Season 7 on Buffy's 22nd.

….

Eleven thirty-six on the night of Buffy's twenty-second birthday, found her sitting in silence on her back porch, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. This was, by far, the best birthday she'd had in years and she'd spent the whole day avoiding the fact altogether. There had been no cake, no singing, no silly hats. Certainly no presents. Although, she mused, being able to slip out of an increasingly crowded house and spend half an hour alone was a fantastic present in and of it's self. Better than an arm-in-a-box and all that followed, or a hulking, unbalanced, pissed off vampire, or a demon-Giles, or a bleeding sister, or The-House-Party-That-Refused-To-Die.

Or grounded and packing because she'd burned down the gym. Actually, in hindsight, that had been one of her better birthdays.

She checked her watch. Twenty-four more minutes and she could relax.

The back door eased open and as Buffy felt a familiar pricking on her back, she smiled.

"Hey."

Spike dropped to the step beside her. "Hey. Do you mind? Dawn and the new one are doing laundry. And chattering up a storm."

No doubt. Dawn was so excited about having someone she actually knew in the house she could hardly contain herself.

"It's fine."

So they sat, barely an inch between them, staring into the dark back yard. He was breathing in time with her, and she idly wondered if he did it on purpose. Timing his breath to match the human he's with. Memories raced through her, unbidden, proving her theory wrong.

_Spike sawing air, angry and restraining himself while she baits him, Buffy gasping in the middle of a fight while Spike breathes steady, Spike panting in her ear as her body tautens and she forgets how to breathe_.

She shivered, and tried not to think about straddling him in the cemetery two nights ago. She failed.

Fourteen minutes.

"How are you're ribs?" her voice was too bright, her face too…something, but if he noticed he kept his mouth shut.

"Fine. Thought I'd be completely healed by now, though. Been nearly a month."

And she thought today had been stressful. It had nothing on the days she'd spent trying to get him back from The First. House filling up with frightened girls, Neanderthal vampires. And, always, frantically trying to locate Spike, and even more frantically trying to hold on the excuse that they needed him back because of the trigger, and _not_ because the idea of him dying made her blood run cold.

She shivered again. "I'm really glad you're okay."

The look on his face made her breath catch and her heart stutter, but she didn't look away.

Awe…and love. Again. Still. Even if he never said it anymore.

He cleared his throat. "I, uh, I knew. That you'd find me."

"How?"

His boots suddenly became a lot more interesting. "Because you're Buffy."

Their eyes met then, and she really didn't know what to say, because the sheer amount of faith he has in her? It's kind of mind-blowing. So she did the only thing she could. She went back to staring at the yard.

Six minutes.

Spike was still looking at her. She could feel it on her neck, but she couldn't turn around because it was still her birthday for another four minutes, and no _way_ could she risk another birthday disaster. Not now. Not while the worlds was already falling to pieces around her.

Instead she stared at her watch until, finally, _finally_ it wasn't her birthday anymore. The extra tension she'd been carrying around all day rolled off of her, leaving nothing more than the usual apocalypse stress headache.

Spike was smiling when she turned back to him. His hand came down to cover hers for a moment that was so brief she nearly thought she'd imagined it. But his hand lingered closer to her than it had been before, and her own skin was burning from his touch.

"Happy not-birthday Slayer."

"Spike do you want to-" _Patrol? Go for walk? Hold my hand again? Kiss me?_

Before she could settle on a way to end the question, a crash sounded from inside, followed by Anya's voice.

"You've been told at least a dozen times not to play with the crossbows in the house. Buffy's going to be very displeased about that window."

Buffy groaned. They'd _just_ replaced those too.

Spike grinned at her ruefully. "Once more unto the breach?"

He offered his hand, and she took it.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Slow it Down Honey and Stop Playing Them Games  
>Rating: pg-13 (probably could be lower, but I'm pretty sure Buffy and Spike should just come with an automatic 'at least pg-13' rating.)<br>Setting: S6, missing moment from OAFA  
>Words: 517<br>AN: Spuffy one-shot written for the prompt "truth or dare." Published as it's own story on LJ's fag_ends comm, but I figured I'd just add it to this collection of "Buffy's birthdays" one-shots.

…

Sometime around three in the morning, Dawn suggests a game of truth or dare. She's grinning so wide, it's threatening to break her face and her infectious enthusiasm spreads until nearly everyone in the room is hastening to form a circle and play.

But fear (of all the secrets she's been keeping, all the things lurking just under the surface that she's been scrambling to keep covered up) stops Buffy in her tracks. She begs off, to much protestation, and as she makes her way to the kitchen she can feel Spike's eyes on her (always, _always_ on her; no matter where she is or what she's doing).

"Think I'll pass too. Not fair, playing with a vampire. Done too much you wouldn't want to know about, and far too daring."

Buffy can hear his boots thumping against the floor as she heads for the kitchen, but if anyone besides Tara has noticed that something is off, they keep it to themselves (which is unlikely. So probably no one noticed).

She sinks into a chair at the island, pours herself a soda, and waits.

She doesn't wait long, before he's there, leaning into her space, propped up on the counter by his elbows.

"Scared of a kid's game, Slayer?" He's taunting her, but it's gentle, almost teasing. The same way he's been all night. The same way _she's_ been all night.

She's grown contemplative, though, in the late-night quiet of her kitchen. She could volley back, tease him about being just as wary, but instead she says,

"I always picked dare."

He cocks his head and she continues.

"When I was younger. Before I was called. I always picked dare. Always."

He grins at her then. A real grin, open and kind, his eyes shining with something she is forever too afraid to recognize. It makes her stomach drop and clench all at once.

"'Course you did. Can't imagine you ever backing down from a challenge."

It's these moments, the ones when she knows he genuinely cares about her (loves her even, if she's in the mood to admit it) that make Buffy more uncomfortable than any other aspect of their relationship. She's just no good at the emotions part (She used to be. But that was before she clawed herself out of her grave, and maybe even longer before that).

His hand falls to rest on her thigh and he leans closer, his voice a rough whisper in her ear. "Truth or dare, Buffy?"

She glances past his shoulder. No one can see them. So she winds her arms around his neck and pulls him close. Kisses him hard, right there in her kitchen, mere feet from everyone she loves.

When she pulls back to breathe, Spike rests his brow against hers and repeats, "Truth or-"

Her fingers tighten on his shoulders. "Spike, I don't want to play."

His lips travel down to her neck, and he murmurs into her skin. "What do you call this, then?"

She doesn't answer, just pulls him back up to her mouth (He'll always pick truth, she'll always pick dare).


End file.
